Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Somehow, that didn’t surprise Styke. There was something vaguely familiar about him, like Styke had seen his portrait over someone’s mantel. “I don’t remember you.”

  “Gregious Tampo, Esquire,” the man said with a half bow.

  “A lawyer?” Styke asked. “I haven’t met many lawyers.”

  “Not back then,” Tampo said. “I was a soldier. Dragoons attached to the Thirty-Second Regiment. Defected from the Kez foreign legion when the war started.”

  In any other country, the word “defector” was a curse. But among the Fatrastans it was a badge of pride. Just about everyone who fought in the revolution against the Kez was a defector of some sort. Styke searched his memory, trying to find some clue that would allow him to recall this stranger. But the name meant nothing. Maybe he’d remember something once his ears stopped ringing and the pain faded. “Doesn’t ring a bell. No offense.”

  “None taken. We only crossed paths briefly.”

  There was a time Styke would have embraced a fellow soldier, offered him a beer, and spent the night trading stories. Not anymore. Ghosts from the past rarely boded well in the labor camps. New inmates meant another set of someone else’s problems, and new guards meant more habits and mentalities to learn. But he found himself taken with this Tampo. Soldiers had an understanding with one another that most people couldn’t grasp—a bond forged by victory, violence, and even defeat.

  “Well,” Styke said. He touched the side of his head gingerly, then tried to stand up. The guards hadn’t managed to break any bones—it took more than truncheons to crack Ben Styke—but his head swam something fierce and it took a few moments to gain his feet without collapsing. He stretched his arms out, touching either side of the cell with his fingertips, working out the kinks in his back. “Thanks for the chat. It’s good to hear someone remembers my name. But you’ll want to get out of here before the guards return.”

  “They won’t be bothering us.”

  “They make rounds pretty often.”

  “A handful of krana makes a strong impression.”

  Styke paused his stretching and blinked through the pain behind his eyes. “Are you here to see me?” he asked, incredulous. One of those guards must have landed a particularly strong blow to his head. In ten years he’d not had a single visitor.

  “I actually came for your parole hearing,” Tampo said. He tapped his cane against the ground a few times, fiddling with the end as if annoyed with himself. “Traffic held me up, so I was ten minutes late. Arrived just in time to see your scuffle with the guards.”

  This gave Styke pause. “I didn’t even know when my hearing would be until this morning. How did you?”

  “I have friends.”

  Styke took a half step toward Tampo, stopping just short of the iron bars. “You’re not the one who gave my parole officer that note, are you?”

  Tampo scowled. “What note?”

  Styke thought about telling Tampo about the note from the Lady Chancellor’s office, but everything he had to say sounded awfully whiny in his head. Besides, Tampo was a stranger, and Styke had already blabbed too much. It was best to clam up and wait for judgment from the camp administrators. He paced to the other end of the cell, then back. “So you bribed the guards to get to talk with me. I’m guessing it wasn’t just to chat about the war.”

  “No,” Tampo said matter-of-factly. “It’s not.”

  “Then what could you possibly want from me?”

  “I’d like to offer you a job.”

  Styke threw his head back and laughed. It was cut short by a strange clicking from his jaw, and the pounding headache that accompanied it. He winced, shaking his head, then met Tampo’s eye. The lawyer was still leaning against the wall, and he looked slightly put out at having been laughed at. “By the pit, you’re serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious. You don’t think I’d come all the way down to the labor camp just to make a joke with a man the world thinks is dead, do you?”

  “You going to offer me a job when I get out of here?” Styke retorted. “Because that’s likely to be a very long time.”

  “On the contrary.” Tampo checked a pocket watch. “If you accept my proposal, I expect you’ll be standing outside the gates of the labor camp within fifteen minutes.”

  “Bullshit,” Styke said. Any humor or comradeship he felt toward Tampo was gone, replaced by a cold anger. Was he being mocked? Played with? Was Tampo an agent of the Lady Chancellor’s, come to toy with him? This was cruel, even by her standards.

  “The work won’t be easy,” Tampo said, as if he didn’t notice the dangerous glint in Styke’s eyes. “There’ll be fights, killing, maybe even full-fledged battles, but I expect those are all things you’re used to. I’m guessing your old wounds from the firing squad have slowed you down a little, but based on the brawl with the guards, you’re still more than capable. You’re still Mad Ben Styke.”

  Styke felt a growl rise from the back of his throat. He resisted the urge to reach through the bars and squeeze Tampo’s head between his hands until it popped.

  Tampo’s eyebrows rose slightly and he looked Styke up and down like one might a newly purchased horse. “Yes, more than capable. Now then, I expect to use you as a tool—a blunt instrument for my own ends, some of which may be distasteful to you. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  “Get me out of here,” Styke said, “and I’ll kill the bloody queen of Novi if you’d like.”

  “Excellent. Guards!” A pair of yellow-smocked guards appeared in the hallway. “Escort Mr. Styke outside the premises, if you will. Mr. Styke, I’ll attend to a few items and then meet you outside. Try not to get into any fights on the way out.”

  The process was over as fast as a whirlwind. Styke was led through the holding cells, marched through the labor camp, and straight toward the front gates. He walked mechanically, in a stupor, unable to believe that this was really happening. Every step he expected this to be some kind of joke, a cruel attack on his psyche—a fleeting taste of freedom that would be pulled away at the last minute.

  “Ben!” a voice called, pulling him out of his stupor. He turned to see Celine matching his pace, staying well out of reach of the guards. “Ben,” she said, “they said you got in a fight. I thought you were a goner.”

  Styke felt a knot in the back of his throat. “Wait,” he told the guards, stopping and turning toward Celine. He was yanked forward.

  “No waiting,” one of them said. “You leave now or you don’t leave at all.”

  “Her,” he said, pointing at Celine. “She comes with me.” He let himself be pulled along, unable to stop his feet from walking him toward freedom.

  “The girl wasn’t part of the deal,” the guard said.

  “She’s not a convict,” Styke said, hearing a note of desperation reach his voice. “Her father was a convict. He died last season. She doesn’t have to stay here, she’s just stuck because she came along with him. Check the records, just let her out.”

  “Not happening,” the guard said. Styke was shoved roughly through the front gate of the labor camp, the gate shut behind him while the guards chased Celine away from the entrance. She stopped a safe distance back, staring openmouthed at Styke, a look of despair on her face. She was a child, but she was far from stupid. She knew what this meant—the fate his presence protected her from.

  “Come on,” Styke said. “I’m not a begging man, but please. Just let the girl go.”

  The guard checked the lock on the gate, then sneered at Styke. “You broke my cousin’s leg earlier today. He won’t work for months. Your kid back there”—he jerked his thumb toward Celine—“won’t last the week.”

  Styke snatched at the guard through the bars, but the man skipped back with a laugh.

  “You’re nothing but a killer,” the guard said. “You’ll be back here in a few months, once that posh asshole is finished with you. And we’ll have a welcoming committee waiting.”

  Styke smacked his fist ag
ainst the bars of the gate and retreated a safe distance to pace, eyeing the guard towers above the palisade and the muskets they held at the ready. He would tear the whole bloody camp down to get to Celine.

  Tampo returned and was allowed through the gate. He held up a piece of paper that Styke recognized as the note Raimy received from the Lady Chancellor’s office. “Is this the note you referenced?” he asked.

  “It is,” Styke said.

  Tampo produced a match, lighting the edge of the paper, and letting it burn down to his fingertips before brushing away the ash. “There,” he said. “As far as anyone inside is concerned, no communication was received from the Lady Chancellor’s office and you were released as a free man without parole based on your exemplary record.” He dusted his suit jacket off and checked the polish on his shoes, looking pleased with himself, before gesturing toward a waiting carriage. “Shall we?”

  Styke shook his head.

  Tampo seemed taken aback. “You leave something inside?”

  “Celine,” Styke whispered. The girl had disappeared, probably hiding from the guards.

  “Eh?”

  “Celine,” Styke said. “I’m not leaving without her. There.” He caught sight of her near one of the administration buildings, peeking out from behind the corner. He’d always liked her independence—she could beat up any of the camp boys her age, and could outrun even the most determined convict—but she suddenly looked vulnerable and alone. He would not leave her in the camp. “She comes with me.”

  He waited for Tampo to say no. He could see the word on the lawyer’s lips as he looked back and forth between the two. Then Tampo suddenly called for a guard to open the gate. A handful of coins changed hands, and a few minutes later Styke was riding in the carriage opposite of Tampo, an arm around Celine, the girl clinging to his side. His aches and bruises seemed far away, and even his knee didn’t hurt as much as usual.

  He looked down at Celine. She was clutching the canoe he’d carved her in one hand, the other grasping his. He glanced across at the lawyer, silently daring him to say something about his relationship with the girl. All of the convicts and guards certainly had.

  “The two of you reek,” was Tampo’s only comment.

  “So,” Styke said. “Who do you want me to kill?”

  “Have you ever heard of Lady Vlora Flint?” Tampo asked.

  Styke recalled a newspaper article he read awhile back about the Adran-Kez War. “She’s a general in the Adran Army, isn’t she?”

  “That’s her,” Tampo said. “But she’s not with the Adran Army anymore. She left Adro a few years ago when the government decided to reduce the size of the military. Took the cream of the Adran Army with her and formed the Riflejacks, a mercenary rifle company about five thousand men strong.” Tampo looked out the window while he spoke. “She’s recently been recalled here to Landfall to deal with the Palo riots. She arrives this afternoon. I want you to go join her company.”

  “What makes you think she would let me join?”

  “She will when she finds out who you are. No general worth their salt would let Mad Ben Styke walk away. Besides, they had some losses putting down Palo revolts on the frontier and they’ll want to come up to full strength.”

  “And if she lets me in?” Styke asked.

  “Get close to her.”

  “You want me to kill her?” Styke was already working the idea through his head. Lady Flint was a powder mage, and Styke had never fought a powder mage before. He wasn’t sure if he could manage one in a fair fight. Fair seldom came into play during an assassination, though.

  Tampo grinned at Styke, but the smile never touched his eyes. “On the contrary,” he said. “I want you to keep her alive. For now.”

  Styke thought he detected a sinister note to those last two words, but he shrugged it off. No more bars, no more hard labor. He didn’t even have to report for parole. He laid his big, mangled hand on the back of Celine’s head, gently patting her dirty hair. For the gift of his freedom—and Celine’s—he’d kill any damned person Tampo asked.

  CHAPTER 6

  Michel waited by the docks of Lower Landfall, watching a procession of keelboats emerge from the Hadshaw Gorge and drift lazily toward their landing site near the market. The keelboats were flat, low-in-the-water crafts with peeling paint and a line of freestanding rowers on either side of their long, cigarlike frames. The decks of each boat were awash with dark red and blue—the uniforms of the mercenaries being transported on board.

  Fatrasta had a long history of getting into bed with mercenary companies, from Brudanian soldiers carving land away from the Palo in the early decades of colonization, to the more recent Wings of Adom helping the Fatrastan Revolution against the Kez. The Lady Chancellor employed dozens of mercenary companies across the continent, in addition to Fatrasta’s own military. Personally, Michel didn’t trust anyone whose loyalty could be bought with a stack of krana notes.

  “I’m not thrilled with this,” he muttered to himself.

  He rolled his eyes at the inevitable answer. “You’re not thrilled with much of anything these days. Lady Flint has a great reputation. You should be happy they didn’t assign you to some asshole.”

  “She might still be an asshole. Fidelis Jes said she was an arrogant bitch.”

  “Fidelis Jes is …” Michel paused, lest anyone nearby overhear his one-person dialogue. “ … doesn’t seem to have a great opinion of most people. Remember, this is just a light assignment. Take care of this and you can find those Iron Roses.”

  The keelboats drifted closer, their rowers occasionally dipping into the water to control their heading in the gentle flow of the river. The first keelboat finally pulled up next to the landing and a keelboater leapt onto the bank, securing the craft to land and running out the gangplank.

  Soldiers almost immediately began to disembark, lifting their packs and rifles and coming onto the shore, stopping for a stretch, forming orderly groups in what Michel could only imagine were their companies. He stood with his hands behind his back, black cap pushed forward to shield his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun, and remained, for better or worse, mostly ignored by the arriving mercenaries. He wore his formal uniform, with the black shirt with offset buttons, and silently cursed the man who decided that the Blackhats absolutely had to dress in black.

  He eyed the first boat, then the second, and, with growing annoyance, the third. Dozens of them would be arriving throughout the rest of the day—the number it took to transport the whole brigade of mercenaries from the Tristan Basin—and he had no interest in waiting that long out in the heat.

  Michel’s waning patience was rewarded as the fourth boat pulled up to the landing. He recognized the first person to walk down the gangplank from the description in the dossier the Blackhats kept on her.

  Everything about Lady Vlora Flint seemed to contradict her name. She was a short, slight woman of about thirty years of age with black hair tied back beneath her bicorn hat. She had a pretty face, worn by a decade of campaigning in the sun but looking little older for it, and blue, calculating eyes. Her uniform fit her like a second skin, sharply pressed despite several days on the keelboats. One hand rested comfortably on the grip of a pistol in her belt, while the other had a thumb hooked in her belt.

  Someone less informed than Michel might laugh at such an unassuming woman at the head of a company of mercenaries. And they would be in for quite a nasty surprise.

  Michel mentally considered Flint’s Blackhat dossier, noting how little information it contained beyond the public record. Her life, after all, was almost entirely in the public eye—from her broken engagement to Adran and Fatrastan war hero Taniel Two-shot shortly before his death in the Adran-Kez conflict, to her exit from the Adran political arena just four years ago. As a powder mage, and the adopted daughter of Field Marshal Tamas, she was about the most dyed-in-the-wool soldier one was likely to find anywhere in the world.

  Michel cleared his throat. “Good after
noon, General Flint.”

  Flint paused a few feet off the gangplank, twisting at the waist to elicit a series of loud pops from her spine and letting out a satisfied sigh. She eyed his black cap. “Good afternoon. Do I know you?”

  He showed her his Silver Rose before tucking it back into his shirt. “Michel Bravis, of her Lady Chancellor’s secret police.”

  Flint shook his hand, squeezing it just hard enough to let him know she was in charge of the conversation but not so much as to overcompensate. He wondered if she practiced her handshake. “A Blackhat, eh? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Not much of a pleasure, I’m afraid,” Michel said, giving her his best sympathetic smile. “I’ve come from the Lady Chancellor’s office. I’ll be your government liaison while your company is stationed here in the city.”

  “I see,” Flint said. “Here to keep an eye on me, are you?”

  “That’s the short of it,” Michel said. “The long of it is that I’ll give you your assignments, make sure you’re paid, see to the comfort of your men, and offer you the assistance of the secret police when you’re in need of it.”

  Flint raised one eyebrow. “That’s … refreshingly honest.”

  “I try to keep these things painless,” Michel said.

  “Field Marshal Tamas always said a smiling spy was no different than a rug salesman,” Flint said, sniffing. “But you don’t smell like cheap pomade and cologne.” A smile softened the remark.

  Michel rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, keeping the grin on his face, trying to get some sort of a read on General Flint. She was known as a hard one—hence the moniker of “Flint.” But her sense of humor surprised him, which among high-ranking military types was about as common as a flying horse. She certainly didn’t seem arrogant. He’d have to keep a close eye on her.